


2 AM

by Silver Spark (SilverSpark)



Category: Derry Girls (TV)
Genre: Arawn O'Brian's bad reputation, Banter, Confident(er) James, David Donnelly - Freeform, Erin is obsessed with his eau-de-cologne, Erin is obsessed with his jacket, Erin isn't as clever as she thinks, F/M, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Idiots in Love, James isn't as innocent as he seems, Niamh and Arawn and Rory are OCs, Orla and her ghosts, Overuse of the word "boke", Party Shenanigans, The angst is starting y'all, just a bit though, they're both in denial
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2020-08-11 17:16:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20157202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverSpark/pseuds/Silver%20Spark
Summary: When James comes knocking on her door in the middle of the night, Erin isn’t sure what to expect.All she knows is that ever since that fateful autumn’s day, she can’t bear the thought of him leaving Derry.And she slowly understands why.(Alternatively: an eight-part-story of two morons going through every fucking stage of denial before coming to terms with their feelings. Expect a tad of jealousy, a little banter, a bit of angst and a lot of cursing. Michelle is there.)





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there!
> 
> Are you ready to suffer through two idiots falling in love? Cause I sure am. I just finished the second season of Derry Girls and damn do I wish the episodes were longer. 
> 
> Anyhow, thanks for giving this fic a chance. 
> 
> Part One - Or the one in which Erin realises that James is a bloke. 
> 
> Have fun reading!

* * *

**Part one**

* * *

“Michelle is _where_?!”

James grimaces, one of his hands rising to sheepishly scratch the back of his head. He wouldn’t have walked all the way through Derry if it hadn’t been important. _Especially_ not at two in the bloody morning. He tugs the sleeves of his jeans jacket back, a nervous habit of his, and tries for a thin smile. “She didn’t tell you.”

A statement, not a question.

Erin gapes at him, her chin nearly disappearing inside her neck. “I thought we agreed that we _wouldn’t_ go to that stupid party?”

James purses his lips, shrugging helplessly. “You know Michelle. She just went anyway.”

“But there are _protestants_ there,” she scream-whispers, her voice getting quieter at the word _protestants_, in case she’d accidently woken up someone in the Quinn-McCool household. She looks over her shoulder, half expecting to see her Ma standing there, brandishing a wooden spoon like it were fucking Excalibur. Thankfully, everyone – even Orla – is still asleep. When she turns back to James, his hands are buried in his pockets.

“I wouldn’t normally care,” he says, shrugging again, “but Aunt Diedre called two hours ago, asking for Michelle. I had to come up with a lie and I kind of panicked.”

Erin winces, expecting the worst. “What did you say?”

“I told her she was ill and couldn’t come to the phone.”

“Well, that’s okay, right?”

His grimace deepens. “Aunt Diedre said she’d come home an hour early.”

“_Shite_.” Erin feels a sudden chill creep up her bare arms, and she realises that she’s only wearing an old _Take That_ t-shirt over a thin pair of pants. Looking up, she notices that James is also still in his pyjamas, his jeans jacket the only thing making his outfit look more or less okay. She takes a step back into her house, trying to avoid the cool April breeze, and James’ eyes go wide, betraying his sudden panic.

Erin crosses her arms over her chest. “Why would you run after Michelle? It’s _her_ fault if she gets caught.”

What she says is true, she knows, but she doesn’t entirely mean it. Despite everything Michelle says and does, she’s still one of her best friends, and she doesn’t _really_ want her to be grounded until the twenty-first century.

James sighs. “We’ve gotten into a _lot_ of trouble lately.”

“Will Michelle’s Ma murder you if she finds out you lied?” Erin asks jokingly.

It takes him a couple seconds to look up from his shoes, but when he does, Erin isn’t certain she wants to know why he looks so _panicked_. “Aunt Diedre said she’d send me back to London if I didn’t behave. If she finds out I lied to cover for Michelle, she _actually_ might send me back to my mum.”

Erin’s smile drops.

That feeling’s back. The one she’d experienced _that_ day in November, when James had nearly left Derry forever. She blinks at him for a moment, the unpleasant ache in her chest surprising her to the point of being rooted to the spot, eyes wide and heart beating too fast.

James misinterprets her reaction and shakes his head. “You don’t have to come with me, I know it’s late, but I have no idea where Arawn O’Brian lives and I hoped you could give me his address?”

Snapping out of her daze, Erin abruptly reaches for her jacket and her Da’s house keys, choosing to ignore James’ sudden change in expression. He looks like he’d been hoping she’d come with him. She carefully closes the door behind her, the thought of waking up Orla to help them not even crossing her mind.

When she’s finally facing James again, his smile reminds her why she’s risking her Ma’s wrath.

James belongs in Derry.

“Let’s go get Michelle.”

* * *

Erin hasn’t walked this fast since that one time a bunch of Travellers seemed to be chasing them on their way to Belfast. James is walking ahead of her, his clenched fists swinging at his sides, and it dawns on her that she’s never seen the English fella this mad before. Come to think of it, she doesn’t even remember a time where she’d actually witnessed him being angry before tonight. The thought of getting sent back to his mom must have scared him.

She doesn’t blame him. Who’d want to go back to _England_?

“James?” She says, scurrying to match his steps.

“Yes?” His voice is lower than she’s used to. “Are we going the wrong way?”

She shakes her head, too breathless to respond with words, and points towards a couple houses down the street. He squints his eyes, the darkness making it difficult for him to see, but doesn’t slow his furious pace.

“Why did you wait two hours to go after Michelle?” Erin asks after a while, her tone far from accusatory – she’s merely curious.

She doesn’t miss how his jaw clenches. “I thought Michelle would be true to her word and she’d be back at two.”

Erin scoffs. “That was stupid of you.”

“It _really_ was.” He somehow manages to walk even faster, and Erin is having a hard time keeping up with him. “I should have known better that to trust her.”

“How long until her Ma comes home?”

He raises his left hand, checking the time on his wristwatch. “In about fourty-five minutes.”

“_Fuck_.”

A strained laugh escapes his throat. “Agreed.”

When they catch a glimpse of a silhouette boking on someone’s shoes, they know they’re in the right place. Erin’s only seen Arawn O’Brian once, but his bright ginger hair is impossible to forget. She’s only _half_ surprised that he’s the one boking his guts out.

She expects James to stop in front of the house, if only to check that his cousin isn’t sleeping in a nearby bush. He doesn’t, however, opting for a more direct approach. He pushes past a couple hammered people, ignoring their drunken insults, and walks straight into O’Brian’s house. If Erin wasn’t afraid to be left alone around a bunch of pissed fellas, she’d have gaped at him.

She didn’t know that an angry James equalled a very confident James.

He makes his way through the dancefloor, Erin in tow, his eyes scanning the crowd for curly black hair. Erin doesn’t always feel small, but when the only thing you can see is sweaty armpits, it’s difficult to deny. She’s suddenly pushed to the side, a group of girls walking past her to reach the bar. For a second, she’s afraid James kept on walking and she’d have to search for him too, but as the girls walk away, she feels his hand on her arm. He says something, she’s sure, but the music is too loud for her to understand. He turns back around, ready to walk on, and she immediately grabs onto the back of his jacket. She doesn’t pull, so he doesn’t stop, but at least now they won’t get separated again.

It feels weird to be this close to him, she thinks, the only thing keeping her from being pressed against his back being her hand on his jacket. He moves slowly, taking as much time as necessary to scan the room. She wants to help – she _really _does – but the smell of boke, alcohol and sweat isn’t helping her focus.

Actually, that isn’t entirely true. The putrid smell is forcing her to hide her face into his jacket. It takes her a moment to recognize the scent, but she eventually remembers that he’d received a vial of eau-de-cologne for Christmas. Michelle had teased him about it, telling him that the only reason they’d bought him that was that he smelled _English_. Erin had laughed at it back then, but she isn’t laughing now.

It’s _awfully _distracting.

Until some bloke’s hands suddenly grab at her butt.

Erin squeals, instinctively jumping forward to get away from the unwanted contact. She twists around, her expression going from surprised to positively seething, and jabs her index finger into the guy’s stomach. He’s beyond drunk, that much she can see, but _nothing_ excuses that kind of disgusting behaviour. “_Hands_. _Off_.”

She isn’t sure if he’s heard her through the loud music, but she doesn’t have the time to wait for an answer. She’s suddenly pulled back by the jacket, James brushing past her to face the drunk fella. She barely has the time to say his name before James pushes his forearm into the fella’s chest, messing up his balance and sending him flying into a wee coffee table. If she managed to stop herself from gaping at him earlier, she sure as hell can’t now.

He grabs her upper arm softly – too softly for someone who just pushed a guy into furniture – and pulls her forward. He tells her something again, but she doesn’t catch a single word he says. He doesn’t hide his confusion as she positions herself behind him, both of her hands grabbing at his clothes in case something goes wrong again. He does a good job at hiding his smile, though.

He points at something in front of them, but Erin’s face is buried in his jacket, so he ends up giving up trying to communicate and just marches on. She’s careful to match his every step, tripping in this sort of place isn’t necessarily on her bucket list.

When he comes to an abrupt stop, her squeal of surprise doesn’t go unnoticed. The music isn’t as loud in this part of the house, and people turn to look at them. She nearly cries in relief when she recognises Michelle Mallon’s piercing blue eyes staring at them, too. She’s pressed up against some dark-haired fella – probably a _protestant_ – with her hands all over his curls. She lets go of James to get to Michelle first, but he beats her to the punch, nearly sprinting to where his cousin is standing.

“We have to go,” James says, the urgency in his tone making Michelle frown.

“You can fuck _right_ off,” she slurs, the guy she snogged snickering behind her. “Can’t you see I’m busy, you English prick?”

Erin steps in before he has a chance to respond. “For fuck’s sake Michelle, your Ma’s coming home soon and you’ll be grounded until you _die_ if you’re not home by then!”

Michelle tenses at her friend’s words, her eyes going wide with panic. She immediately pushes away from the stranger, mumbling a series of colourful curses only a drunk Mallon could come up with and yanks her jacket off one of the nearby chairs. She pushes past her cousin, completely missing the way his jaw clenches at her antics, before running towards the door. “Come _on_, motherfuckers!”

By the time both Erin and James are outside, Michelle is lying in a puddle of Arawn O’Brian’s boke.

* * *

“Are you sure you don’t want help?”

Erin watches, pursing her lips, as Michelle bokes into her neighbour’s favourite flowerpot. She mumble something into the roses, but thankfully her voice is too soft for anyone to hear. That doesn’t happen very often. Her being momentarily soft-spoken, not the vomiting.

James shakes his head, still grimacing in disgust. “No, we’ll be fine.”

“But are you _sure_? If you don’t get home before her Ma comes home you might…” Erin cuts herself off mid-sentence, the unpleasant feeling back to taunt her.

“We still have about twenty minutes, I’ll have enough time to bring her home and act like none of this happened,” he says, smiling for the first time that night, “thank you for helping me, Erin.”

She doesn’t understand why she blushes. He’s thanked her plenty of times before, why is this time so different? _He’s_ _different_, a traitorous voice whispers inside her mind, and she has to consciously stop herself from pinching herself. The situation is already embarrassing enough as it is.

“Of course, yeah, no problem, yup, wouldn’t want our Michelle to be grounded, would we?” Erin rambles, thankful that the dark of night hides most of her weird expressions.

James’ smile doesn’t falter. “No, we wouldn’t.”

“Shouldn’t you be going then? You have no time to lose.” _You can’t be going back to England. _

He nods, turning to look at his disastrous cousin. He stares at her for a couple seconds, probably trying to figure out how to get the girl on his back without assistance. Erin’s about to go help when Michelle throws up again, right over her own clothes.

James groans in disgust. “_How_ am I getting her vomit off my jacket now?”

“Oh _god_ no, _not_ your jacket,” Erin exclaims, her hands flying to her mouth in shock. She says it without thinking, and when her brain catches up, the tip of her nose reddens in quiet mortification.

She can’t see his face, but she’s pretty certain he’s mocking her right now. She knows _she_ would. How _weird_ does he think she is, now? Why does she even _care_ what he thinks? Why is everything _so_ confusing tonight?

James seems to ponder her words for a moment, his eyes going back and forth between Michelle and his arms. She can barely believe it when he starts taking off his jeans jacket. With an apologetic smile, he hands it to her. “Can you keep this until tomorrow? I _really_ don’t want her to ruin it.”

Erin can feel her heart race as she nods. “Yeah, sure, _yup_, I can totally do that.”

“Thank you again, Erin.”

His smile is contagious.

“Anytime.”

It takes James less than a minute to get Michelle onto his back and start walking into the night.

It takes Erin’s entire willpower not to wear his jacket to sleep.


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! 
> 
> I want to thank all of you for the comments and the kudos, it means a lot to me. So much, in fact, that I ended up writing the second part earlier than I'd anticipated. Thank you all! 
> 
> Anyway: 
> 
> Part Two - Or the one where Erin realises that James has a life.

* * *

**Part Two **

* * *

One week later and everything’s back to normal.

Orla is still angry at her own socks, Clare is still seconds away from five different mental breakdowns, Michelle is drinking again and James is back to being the helpless English fella they all know and love.

_Helpless_, that unforgiving voice whispers again for the hundredth time that day, _I don’t think so._

Everything’s back to normal, and Erin is _losing_ her mind.

She’s ashamed to admit that she’d thought about keeping his jacket for a day or two, instead of returning it the next morning like she’d promised. She’d even gone as far as preparing a set of apologies, just in case James questioned her. It had taken a lot of self-control for her _not_ to set her stupid plan into motion. And all of that just because of a _fucking_ jeans jacket.

She’d ended up throwing it in his face the next day, irrationally glad – _and sad_ – to be rid of it.

She’d thought that the source of the issue had been the jacket, and that without it, she’d be fine again. She’d hoped that her mind would erase whatever she’d seen that night, if only to preserve what little sanity she had left. However, everyone knows that the more you want to forget something, the more you think about it. 

Erin is doomed.

* * *

“You rode a _protestant_?!”

Clare’s screech is so loud the people of Belfast might have heard her. Michelle slams her hand against her friend’s mouth in a poor attempt at keeping her quiet, but Clare’s _not_ one to stay calm. She pushes the hand away and gapes at Erin. “Did she _really_?”

“Aye she did,” Erin says, nodding her head, “she was all over the fella when we got there.”

Michelle clicks her tongue at her. “Thanks for the fucking support, you dick.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t _need_ any support if you hadn’t gone to the party we had _all_ agreed _not_ to go to,” Erin exclaims.

Orla shrugs her shoulders, her head tilting to the side. “Well you went too, didn’t you, Erin?”

“_Only_ to get Michelle out of trouble.”

“What trouble? I was doing perfectly fine on me own.”

“Oh I’m sorry, Michelle, but I don’t think sitting in Arawn O’Brian’s boke can be qualified as _doing perfectly fine on me own,_” Clare says, grimacing at the image the words triggered in her brain.

Michelle gasps, twisting around to face Erin. “You absolute dick, I _told_ you to keep it a secret.”

“The laws of friendship don’t apply when the said _friend_ lied to the other friend in the first place.”

Michelle throws her hands in the air, a clear sign of exasperation, and points a finger at James, who’d been walking behind the group of girls. “This is all because of _you_, you tit.”

James barely has the time to look up from his shoes that his cousin’s standing in front of him, arms crossed over her chest, her eyes wild. She pushes at his shoulder – not very hard, but she still does it – and Erin finds herself watching his face, expecting it to turn sour. Instead, he takes a step back and rubs over his shoulder, as if to soothe a sore spot. “I just did it so you wouldn’t be grounded.”

Erin frowns at that. _No you didn’t,_ she wants to say. _You did it because you didn’t want to be sent back to your mother. _

“Well next time, keep your fucking nose out of my business, okay?” Michelle growls.

Erin’s eyebrows nearly fly off her forehead. It suddenly dawns on her that Michelle has no idea that her Ma threatened to send James home. It takes her a second to wrap her head around the situation, because it doesn’t make any sense. Why hasn’t James told her? She’s pretty certain that he hadn’t lied that night, no one in their right mind would _want_ to go fetch Michelle at 2AM when she’s pissed drunk. But why wouldn’t he tell her? Michelle wouldn’t be so nasty about it if she knew.

“_Fine_,” James says, as soft-spoken as ever, “I won’t do it again.”

“You fucking better,” Michelle snaps, squinting her eyes at him, “or you’ll wish you’d left Derry when you had the chance.”

Erin’s been fairly efficient at ignoring _that_ unpleasant feeling these past few days, but her friend’s words feel like a punch in the gut. She’s pretty sure the shock can be seen on her face, but if Michelle’s words affect James, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he barely even reacts.

That night must have been a fluke.

“Okay, well, now that this shit is settled,” Michelle starts, “so long motherfuckers. I have somewhere to be.”

Clare scoffs. “Are you going to go ride that protestant again?”

“She’ll have a crackin’ time,” Orla says, raising her hand to high-five Michelle.

The three girls start walking faster, spurred on by their conversation but Erin can’t bring herself to join in. Instead, she starts to slow down, waiting for James to catch up to her. She has a lot of questions. _Why haven’t you told her? Why aren’t you telling her off? Why are you so- _

He’s wearing that eau-de-cologne again.

Erin’s brain short-circuits.

James blinks at her. “Are you alright?”

“I, yeah, yup, of course, why wouldn’t I be?” she rambles, her fingers playing with her tie, a nervous habit of hers.

He shrugs. “I don’t know, you stopped walking so I thought something was wrong.”

“Oh, no, nothing’s wrong, I was just, uh, waiting for you.”

“I was right behind you.”

“Why haven’t you told Michelle?” Erin blurts out, unable to stop herself.

When he doesn’t immediately answer, she expects him to deny it and act like she’s crazy. He scratches the back of his head, pursing his lips. He looks hesitant, but Erin doesn’t push any further. She doesn’t like it when people try to get information out of her, so she’s not about to do that to him. Although she wants to. She _really_ wants to. “It’s fine if-”

“I don’t want her to pity me,” James explains, sighing, “it’s already bad enough to have her yell at me all the time, I don’t want her to start pitying me too.”

Erin isn’t sure how to respond. “But she _could_ help you, right?”

“Michelle? Be helpful?”

They stare at each other for a moment, before they both burst out laughing. Helpful really isn’t something people use to describe Michelle Mallon.

“But what about Clare?”

“Too stressed.”

“And Orla?”

“Orla is… _Orla_.”

_Hard to argue, _she thinks. “You can’t _not_ tell them, though, you know? Imagine something goes wrong and one morning we wake up and you’re _gone_?”

“I told _you_, didn’t I?” James says, sending a small smile her way.

She really wishes she didn’t feel so honoured to be the only one James confides in. She _really_ does. Her fingers tighten around her tie, and she doesn’t even care that her Ma might yell at her for it. She hates ironing her daughter’s crumpled ties.

“What would you even _do_ in London?” Erin wonders, rolling her shoulders to try and ease the tension she feels in her muscles.

James hums. “There are lots of things to do in London.”

“How would _you_ know? You haven’t been to England in two years. It could have drastically changed since the last time you were there, you know? It could be underwater now and you wouldn’t know.”

_How many times can someone say ‘know’ in one sentence?_ Erin tells herself that Sister Michael is stressing her out.

“I- _what_? I went back to London four months ago?”

Erin suddenly remembers that he’d spent Christmas with the Mallons, but had left to spend New Year’s Even in London, with his Ma. Come to think of it, the thought of him staying there hadn’t even crossed her mind. She’d known he’d come back, even if he did miss his mother. “What did you do, then? Whine like a true English fella?”

He frowns at her, albeit playfully. “_Hey_, I don’t _whine_,” he whines, “and I did what everyone does on New Year’s Eve.”

“Get hammered?”

“I went to a party,” he corrects, shrugging, “it was a pretty nice party.”

Erin grunts. “No one parties like the Irish.”

“They can party pretty hard too, you know. My mom gave me a nice new wrist-watch for Christmas and I somehow managed to lose it during the night.”

She arches an eyebrow. “You didn’t lose it, you have it around your wrist right now.”

“I had to go back the next day to search for it,” James says, “thankfully no one stole it.”

“Who would steal a _wrist-watch_?”

“_Hey_, it’s a _very_ nice wrist-watch.”

Erin hums. “Sure it is.”

He chuckles at her tone, his laugh genuine. He knows she’s just messing with him. She’d never tell him, but she does like his style. He doesn’t look like David Donnelly at all, but his clothes suit him. _Especially his jeans jacket_, that voice says, and Erin ignores it. She’s not obsessed by a jacket. She’s not.

“And what did you do at that party?” She asks, surprisingly curious about the whole thing.

James smiles. “I danced, Erin, what else would you do at a party?”

“Drink. Meet new people. Kiss a stranger at midnight.”

“Yeah, I did that too.”

She nods eagerly, his words not registering in her brain. She’s still thinking of all the things one can do at a party. When she replays what he just said in her mind, she has to fight the urge to stop in her tracks.

_Wait what? _

She keeps on walking, willing her body to act as naturally as possible whilst having a mental breakdown. Did he just say what she thinks he said? He kissed a stranger. At a party. In London. She tries to blink the confusion away, until the temptation becomes too strong to resist. “Was it a girl like Katya?”

She doesn’t expect him to groan. “Why do you have to mention _her_ again?”

“Answer the question, James.”

They’re nearing the end of the road, where he’s supposed to go left and she’s supposed to go right. She’s not about to let him walk away just like that. As a good _friend_, she needs to know. He’s a Derry girl, after all, and Derry girls don’t keep secrets from each other. Well, not those kinds of secrets, anyway. _You’re a hypocrite, Erin._ She knows she is, but she doesn’t care.

“_No_, she wasn’t like Katya. She was a nice Scottish girl.”

Erin scoffs. “Well at least she wasn’t English.”

When they reach the familiar sign that separates their streets, he’s already walking away, as if trying to avoid the conversation. Erin is having none of it. She doesn’t follow him, because that would be weird and Erin Quinn _isn’t_ weird. No. Instead, she screams after him. “Were you _so_ infatuated with the nice Scottish gal that you lost your wrist-watch?”

James stops walking, almost abruptly, but doesn’t turn around. She isn’t sure what to expect from him. She wouldn’t even be surprised if he didn’t say anything. He doesn’t always react to her teasing, but how fun would it be to see him blush. _At least you wouldn’t be the only one._ However, when he turns around, he does _not_ look like someone who’s being teased.

She doesn’t miss the way his lips curve into the ghost of a smirk.

“It’s not the _only_ thing I lost that night.”

* * *

Needless to say, Erin Quinn is slowly losing her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erin is so fun to write, you guys. 
> 
> I hope you liked it! Do leave a comment, they truly mean a lot!


	3. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! 
> 
> I can express how bloody happy I am that so many of you enjoy my writing. Honestly, it means a whole fucking lot. You have no idea. Thank. You. 
> 
> Part Three - Or the the one in which Erin is confused.

* * *

**Part Three**

* * *

Erin’s been having a difficult time acting normal as of late.

Not that there _is_ a reason for her not to act like a civilised human being – but there _kind_ of is. The girls and her had been talking about guys, and about, well, the _deed_, for quite a while now and not once had it crossed her mind that the first Derry girl in the group to lose her virginity would be _James_.

And on New Year’s Eve, no less. In London. With some stranger. A _Scottish_ girl.

And he hadn’t even _told_ them once he’d come back to Derry. He hadn’t told them _anything_ until three days ago. Actually, he’d only told _her_. Michelle wouldn’t believe him, she’s sure, and to be completely honest, Erin hadn’t quite believed him at first either. But then she’d remembered the way he’d looked at her, that _smirk_, and this whole stupid situation’s been driving her nuts ever since.

She could have talked about it to the others. But she didn’t.

She could have written it in her diary. But she didn’t.

Erin kept it a secret.

And she doesn’t understand why.

So when Michelle decided to drag them all to the cinema to watch some stupid film about witches, Erin was thrilled. She’d _finally_ be able to get her mind off things. She’d somehow forgotten that James would also be there, but she’d concocted a last-minute plan to save her ass. She’d just have to _not_ end up alone with him. Easy. Completely fool proof. Impossible to fuck up.

_And yet. _

Erin’s leaning against a wall, waiting for the others to get their shit together. They’d all given their money to James – except Michelle – and had tasked him to get the tickets. But James hasn’t moved from his spot in ten bloody minutes. He’s scratching his head, a nervous habit of his, she’s noticed, absentmindedly. _You’ve been watching him_, that voice says, and Erin dutifully ignores it.

“Well go on then, ball-ache, go buy the fucking tickets,” Michelle exclaims, her voice laced with exasperation.

James looks hesitant. “I’m not sure I want to watch this movie, Michelle.”

“_The_ _Craft_ looks like a crackin’ movie, what are you on about?”

“I just… I just don’t feel like watching this movie.”

Michelle scoffs. “Oh stop your whining, you wuss. Look at how hot the gals are. I know you’re gay but let poor Clare here enjoy the only lady action she’ll ever get.”

Right on cue, the tiny blonde materialises next to them. “So? Where are the tickets?”

Orla’s head appears over Clare’s shoulder. “Have you eaten them?”

“Of course he hasn’t,” Clare says, shaking her head in disbelief, “you haven’t, _right_?”

James sighs, pointing at the poster hanging in front of him. “_No_, I haven’t. I just… do you really want to see _this_?”

The three girl nod their heads, but he still doesn’t look convinced. He looks around, as if searching for an emergency exit, and eventually points towards another poster. Orla’s the first one to run towards it, her eyes gleaming in excitement. “We have one in our bathroom, we do.”

Michelle blinks at her. “A _Twister_?”

“I’ve seen you use it too, Michelle, when you clean your teeth.”

“You mean a toothbrush?” Clare asks, looking as confused as everyone felt.

Orla nods her head, her eyes hazier than usual. “Aye, you twist it in your mouth to brush, I suppose.”

It takes everyone a moment to get their brains to function again.

“Wouldn’t you rather watch _this_ film?” James asks, hopeful.

Michelle groans, rolling her eyes. “No, _James_, we wouldn’t. We’re watching _The Craft_, and that’s it. Now hurry the fuck up, we don’t have all day.”

“But I _don’t_ want to watch this movie!”

Orla puts a comforting hand on his shoulder, nodding her head in quiet understanding. “Not to worry, James, if you don’t have a twister at home I’m sure Erin’ll lend you hers.”

James cannot stop the way his eyes look over Orla’s shoulder, where Erin seems to be leaning against the wall, biting her nails, completely unbothered by their odd conversation. It lasts less than a second, and still his cheeks feel warmer than before. When he brings his attention back to Orla, she’s staring at him expectantly, and he takes a step back. “_No_. I’m watching _Twister_.”

Clare’s frown deepens. “What, on your own? Isn’t that a wee bit dangerous?”

“Dangerous? We’re in a _cinema_,” James exclaims, his voice getting louder.

“Wise up, you tit, you’re English. If someone catches you while you’re on your own, they’ll fucking kill you.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Michelle groans. “Oh for feck’s sake, _Erin_ say something before I punch him in the face.”

Erin nearly jumps out of her skin at the mention of her name. She’d been pretty content letting them handle the situation, but apparently, not even this could be achieved without arguing. How she hasn’t thrown herself in front of the school bus yet is a mystery. “_What is it_? How difficult can it be to decide on a _movie_?”

Clare grimaces in annoyance. “This is why we should have decided _before_ coming all the way here. If we don’t hurry up, we’ll miss the film and this would all have been for _nothing_.”

“Aye, we had decided. We’re watching The Craft,” Michelle insists, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“No, _you_ had decided. You didn’t even bother asking if we wanted to watch it or not,” James says, shaking his head, “you always do that, Michelle.”

Michelle scoffs. “Aye, I do. Because if I’d let _you_ fuckers decide, we’d never do anything.”

“It wouldn’t hurt if you asked for our opinions, once in a while.”

“I don’t fucking care about your opinion, James, I just want to go watch this fucking movie, so get moving.”

Erin raises her hands, hoping the gesture would shut the two cousins up. It didn’t, but that doesn’t stop her from talking – perhaps yelling – over them. “What’s so wrong with the _Twister_ movie?”

James nods eagerly, his eyes wide in surprise that Erin would back him up on this. “Absolutely nothing, Michelle’s just being a bitch about it.”

“_I’m_ being a bitch about it?” Michelle starts, pointing a finger at herself, “_I’m_ being a bitch about it?!”

“Oh _piss off_, Michelle.”

“You are _so_ dead.”

Erin puts herself in between the two, in case one of them gets too excited and decides to throw punches. She’s facing Michelle, her eyes wild with determination, ready to punch if need be. Erin isn’t a violent person per say, she doesn’t start fights but she’s a hundred percent willing to end them.

Her expressions falters, however, when a familiar scent hits her, the tip of her nose reddening in sudden mortification. His stupidly distracting eau-de-cologne.

She can feel his breath on her hair.

She forgets everything she wanted to say and just gapes at Michelle, hoping to god that none of her friends would catch on to her inner turmoil. Thankfully, Clare decides to do the same, pushing herself between the two girls to try and force Michelle a couple steps back. Clare’s technique works, but she inadvertently elbows Erin in the stomach, and she ends up losing her balance.

His strong grip on her hips is what stops her from falling.

Her heart is racing when she finally dares to look up at him, craning her neck to see him smiling down at her. She smiles back, still _somehow_ unable to speak, and nods him her thanks. He doesn’t speak either, their silent way of communicating making her realise how intimate this feels. James doesn’t seem all that angry anymore, if his expression is anything to go by, and Erin isn’t sure how she feels now. There are so many emotions going through her belly that she momentarily forgets where she is.

He does have pretty eyes, doesn’t he?

Until Orla gasps in horror. “It’s nearly eight o’clock!”

Erin jumps away from him, not missing the way his hands linger for a second too long on her hips. Clare grabs onto Michelle’s arm, who had been ready to propel herself into her cousin. “Hurry the fuck up, James!

The anger comes flooding back, crashing into him like a wave. “I’m not watching your stupid film.”

“Then go watch your stupid tornado movie on your own then, see if we give a shit!”

Clare looks up at Michelle, hesitating. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“We should stay together,” Erin agrees, “we choose a movie and stick to it.”

“But we fucking _did_ choose a movie! _Hours ago_!”

Erin finds it pretty difficult to argue with her. They _had_ all agreed to go see The Craft earlier today, even if James hadn’t voiced his opinion at the time. She understands where he’s coming from, but she can’t really tell Michelle that she suddenly doesn’t agree anymore. She worries her lower lip, trying to find a solution to the problem. Maybe they could come back tomorrow? _That’s it, _she thinks, _we’ll just have to come back tomorrow to watch his movie. Problem solved. _

“Listen, James, since we’ve already decided what to watch tonight, well, I thought we-”

“_Fine_.” 

Erin isn’t sure her ears are working properly. “Huh?”

James thrusts his hands into his pockets. “I said _fine_. I’ll go get your stupid tickets.”

She wish she hadn’t noticed the way his face fell, or the hurt in his eyes.

Michelle claps her hands together. “About _fucking_ time.”

Erin doesn’t understands what’s happening anymore. Clare and Orla also seem quite satisfied with this outcome, but the way James storms off, anger almost radiating off of him – it reminds her of when he’d sent a fella flying into a coffee table. And none of the girls seem to notice. Or care.

Erin’s emotions are all over the place.

“We should come back tomorrow,” she says, waving her hand to get Orla’s attention.

Orla doesn’t seem to be against the idea. “Aye, we should. I love to talk to the ghosts in this place. They had amazing lives, they did.”

“Ghosts?!” Clare shrieks, looking around, her features twisted in panic. “Where?!”

Michelle clicks her tongue. “Wise up, Clare, there aren’t any ghosts here. _Everyone_ knows they’re hanging out in the cemetery.”

“That’s what they want you to think,” Orla whispers.

“Oh for feck’s sake, girls, can you focus for more than five seconds?” Erin exclaims, shaking her head in disbelief, “we should come back tomorrow so we can watch the movie James wants to see.”

Michelle shakes her head, frowning. “I don’t want to watch his shite tornado movie-”

“Oh stop being so dramatic, Michelle, it’s the least we could do.”

Clare nods, despite not exactly feeling at ease anymore. “He did seem quite upset.”

“Sir Reginald the Ghost thinks so too,” Orla says, smiling at the empty space next to her. “He says he quite likes the English fella.”

Michelle doesn’t look like she agrees, but she nods anyway. “_Fucking fine_.”

When Erin turns around, smiling in triumph and eager to tell James the good news, she doesn’t expect him to be standing near the snack bar, his hands buried into some gal’s hair.

Erin’s heart almost stops.

James Maguire is kissing a stranger.


	4. Part Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya everyone! 
> 
> Your comments are giving me life, I hope you know that. 
> 
> This chapter is slightly shorter than the others, but that's only because Part 5 will probably be way longer. A little hint for you: Let's. Partay. 
> 
> Without further ado: 
> 
> Part Four - Or the part in which James is smarter than Erin

* * *

**Part Four **  
  


* * *

“Oh for feck’s sake, _Erin_, shut up and watch the fucking film.”

Erin crosses her arms over her chest with an exaggerated huff, her eyes glaring daggers at the side of Michelle’s face. She twists around in her chair, mumbling her disappointment, to seek support from Clare – because _Clare_ is a sensible human being, and not a monster, like _Michelle_. Barely has she opened her mouth that Clare holds up her left hand, gesturing for her to stay quiet.

Erin can’t believe this. “Aren’t you even a _little_ worried about James?”

Clare doesn’t bother answering, dismissing her friend with a snap of her fingers. Erin gapes at her, her chin almost disappearing inside her neck, about to scream in disbelief. How are they so calm and collected about this? James, the helpless English fella everyone likes to pick on, just had his hands all over some strange gal and _no one_ bats an eye? Why is _she_ the only one freaking out about this?

_You know why_, the little voice says, and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore it.

She knows this feeling. She’s felt it countless times before. When Orla received an amazing Christmas gift from Granda, and she received an old pair of slippers – which Orla ended up getting as well anyway. When David Donnelly had given his jacket to some trollop during one of his gigs, or even when that girl from China – or was it Donegal? – tried to take Clare from her.

Jealousy. She’s feeling jealous.

But she _can’t_ be.

Why would she, really? James can do what he wants, can’t he? He can kiss whoever he likes, whenever he likes. Like that Scottish girl on New Year’s Eve, or the one he’s watching _Twister_ with, right now. James is a fella and he can take care of himself. She’s seen him fight, a gal shouldn’t be a problem. No problem at all. There is no problem.

_No fucking problem_.

She doesn’t realise that she’s clenching her fists until she feels her nails dig into her skin. She opens up her fingers, the darkness of the cinema hiding the little crescent moons dancing across her palms. This is ridiculous, she realises. Why is she so wound up about this? Why does she feel the sudden urge to run after him and demand answers? She can’t be _jealous_ of her. No, she really _can’t_ be because that would mean that she has feelings for him. And she doesn’t. James is James. He’s the English fella that lives with the Mallons. He’s the first ever boy to go to her school. He’s one of her best friends and he’s a Derry girl.

So why the ever living _fuck_ is her heart beating faster?

_Worse_; why in the name of sanity does her heart sink at the thought of him with that girl.

That girl she doesn’t know. That girl who could be a horrible person. That girl that could-

_Why don’t you just go check things out, _her inner voice says, and for the first time in weeks, she _actually_ listens.

Erin raises from her chair, the abrupt movement making Clare shriek in surprise. “Where are you going, Erin?”

_To see if James is alright. _“To the loo.”

Michelle and Orla don’t even spare her a glance as she makes her way out of the room.

* * *

This was a bad idea.

Erin sinks a bit further down her chair, silently thanking her guardian angel that James hasn’t noticed her yet. Sneaking in through the back door had been surprisingly easy, considering the fact that _stealth_ isn’t exactly her second name. She’d plopped down onto the nearest chair, the closest to the exist, in case things got ugly and she’d have to make a run for it. She’d thought that it would be quite difficult to find him amidst the crowd, but to her horror–

\- They were _alone_.

Just James and that girl.

And now Erin.

They’re naturally sitting next to each other. Not close enough to touch, but still too close for it to be entirely innocent. However, fifteen minutes after arriving, and they’re _still_ just watching the movie. No kissing. No hugging. No riding. Everything just as it should be. And yet Erin doesn’t feel satisfied. It takes her a couple minutes, but when the realisation hits her, it hits her _hard_.

She wouldn’t have minded to be the one sitting alone with him.

She’s lying, of course. She’s playing it down, as if she could fool herself into believing that she doesn’t actually _want_ to be the one with him right now. She tries to focus on the movie, hoping it would stop her slow descent into madness, but denial can only do so much for one’s sanity. The longer she stays here, the more difficult it becomes to ignore the ache in her chest. She doesn’t want to acknowledge it, because that would mean that she has feelings for her friend, and she _doesn’t_.

So she turns to leave, feeling ridiculous and something she’s not going to name, and sneaks her way through the back door.

Had she payed a little more attention, she would have noticed the green eyes watching her from the other side of the room.

* * *

“He hasn’t answered _any_ of my questions.”

Michelle folds her legs under her, leaning against Erin’s wardrobe with a groan. She’s cracking her knuckles, the frustration clear in her eyes. She’d spent the entire day trying to get James to talk, but he’d done nothing but ignore her. She’d even threatened him, on multiple occasions, but he’d barely acknowledged her, too busy doing whatever weird shit he does in his free time.

He’d kissed a stranger and he won’t fucking talk about it. It’s driving her crazy.

Erin stares at her, shaking her head in disbelief. “You didn’t give a shit _yesterday_.”

“That was yesterday, Erin, catch up.”

Erin nods in fake understanding, trying to keep her own inner turmoil under wraps. The fact that this whole situation is affecting Michelle so much is normal, she’s James’ cousin after all. The fact that Erin is seconds away from a mental breakdown is _definitely_ not. “He really didn’t say anything? Anything at all?”

“He wouldn’t even tell me her name,” Michelle exclaims, shaking her head.

Erin worries her lower lip. “What if she’s weird? What if she’s an _actual_ prostitute this time?”

“_Right_?”

Both girls sigh, their conversation not getting them anywhere. Michelle raises her hand to chew on her nails, an old habit she thought she’d lost years ago. When her eyes meet Erin’s, she looks like she’s about to tell her a secret. But then Orla suddenly bursts through the door.

Before Erin can even demand that her cousin leave _right this instant_, James appears behind her.

To say that her heart doesn’t skip a beat would be a lie.

“Michelle I think your Ma’s here,” Orla says around her red lollypop.

“You _think_ she’s here?” Michelle asks, squinting her eyes in confusion.

Orla shrugs. “Aye, it could also be a ghost, you know? Sir Reginald told me some ghosts were tricksters sometimes. We should _always_ be careful.”

Michelle is still mumbling about _“fucking ghosts_” as she pushes past her cousin, Orla following suit, completely oblivious to her own cousin’s silent plea for help. When the door closes behind her, Erin has to come to terms with the fact that she’s alone. With James.

She cannot ignore the way her heart beats anymore.

“So _how_ was the movie?” James asks, smiling pleasantly.

Erin shrugs. “It was okay.” _I didn’t fucking watch it, actually, but I’m not gonna tell you that._

“What was your favourite part of it?” He insists, cocking his head to the side.

She notices something in his voice, something that she would compare to _teasing_, but she brushes it off. She’s tired. She’s confused. She’s imagining things. “Nothing in particular.”

“Really? Absolutely _nothing_ stood out?”

Erin arches an eyebrow at him. “Well how would you know? You weren’t there to watch _The Craft_.”

Orla’s voice echoes from downstairs, instructing James to come down. He waves at Erin, his quick but polite way of saying goodbye, but when his hand grabs the doorknob, he doesn’t immediately twist it. Instead, he turns his head towards her, the left side of his face the only thing she can see.

His smirk makes her toes curl.

“You didn’t watch it either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick question, would any of you want a Jerin fic in which James isn't Michelle's cousin, but David Donnelly's? The idea popped up whilst I was writing, and it could perhaps be done after this fic is completed. Do tell me if you'd be interested.


	5. Part Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Five – The one in which Erin is literally and figuratively stuck 
> 
> What a party. 
> 
> This is a fairly long chapter, so I had to cut in half. This is part 1 of part five. Go figure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Hi! It's been a while, hasn't it? 
> 
> Bet you thought I gave the fic up. Welp. You could have been right, I was gone for a couple months. But I'm back. This is longer than the other chapters, so hopefully you'll like it. 
> 
> Thank you!

She had it coming.

Erin’s heart sinks as the realisation hits her like a slap in the face.

She’s locked in.

Her eyes dart between the door and the window. Jumping from the first floor doesn’t seem ideal, but neither does risking her Ma’s wrath. It’s all a matter of survival. If she ends up breaking a leg, her mother might show her some mercy.

She’s half-way to the window when reason kicks in.

Not a good idea. Not a good idea _at all_ – a bit like when Michelle accidently set fire to Fionnula’s house. _Devastating_ _consequences_.

She turns back around, restless, worried, and grabs the door handle again, as though it would suddenly grant her free passage. It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. She thinks about forcing her way through, but her hands already ache, the skin red and a tad swollen – all for nothing. The door hadn’t budged. No one had noticed.

Not with the _Spice Girls_ blasting downstairs.

Arawn O’Brian, whom she’d never even met, had somehow become the bane of her existence.

The first few notes of _Wannabe_ start, and Erin twists around, sighing through her nose as she pictures people dancing to the music, wishing she were amongst the crowd and not stuck in Arawn’s guestroom.

The irony isn’t lost on her.

One look at the clock and her blood runs cold.

She’ll never make it. She’ll never be at Michelle’s house on time. Diedre Mallon’s shift ends in a couple minutes, and even if Erin somehow manages to get out of this hell hole, she’d still have to sprint across town and – no. No, she’s screwed. Completely screwed.

“Erin?” Her heart skips a beat. “Erin, you there?”

James Maguire.

Relief washes over her like a wave and he’s here, he came for her, to get her out of here and she doesn’t even realise she’s smiling until – _until_ – no. _Oh god oh god oh god – no. _She pushes herself closer to the wood, pressing the side of her face against it to hear him better. “James?”

She imagines him smile and she hates herself for it.

“Erin!” He says, his voice closer now, _he’s right there,_ “we’ve been searching everywhere for you!”

The door handle shakes and she’s sure his smile turned into a frown. “Where’s the key?”

“James you have to get out of here!” Erin shrieks, “if you’re not home before Michelle’s Ma comes back, you’re fucked!”

He ignores her. “Where’s the key, Erin?”

“I don’t know! I didn’t even notice anyone lock me in, much less take the key!”

“_How_ do you _always_ end up in situations like these?”

I’m a coward, she wants to say, but she doesn’t. She _is_ a coward, after all. “I don’t know.”

It takes James about a second to rack his brain for an escape plan. Erin only hears a soft thud, but she knows he just pushed himself off the door. “I’ll be right back, I’ll search down-”

“No!” Erin says, kicking the door to keep his attention, “you _have_ to go home. _Now_.”

The response is instantaneous. “And leave you here? Not happening, Erin.”

“I’ll find a way, the party won’t go on forever! You _don’t _have the time!”

His voice is louder now, and not just because he moved closer. “_Not_. _happening_.”

“If you get caught you’ll–”

“– I know–”

“– you won’t make it–”

“– _I_ _know_–”

She hits the door with her fists, not even caring about the pain that shoots up her arm. “She’ll send you back to London!”

“I bloody _know_, alright? But-”

“James I don’t want you to leave!”

His own hand slams against the wood. “Then _why_ did you run?!” 

* * *

She had it coming.

This is all on her.

She had it coming.

* * *

**Two hours earlier**

“The hell are you all complaining about?” Michelle asks, frowning in confusion, “you were _so_ mad last time I went to a party without you and now that I tell you I got us _all_ an invite, you’re _also_ mad?”

Clare scoffs, her hands busy trying to tame Orla’s unruly hair. “Yes, _Michelle_, that is _obviously_ what we’re all mad about.”

Erin nods, praying she won’t accidently poke her eye out with her aunt’s eyeliner. “You could have warned us a bit earlier, don’t you think?” She gestures at the clothes she’s wearing. “I thought this was movie night, _look at me_.”

Michelle rolls her eyes. “Oh please, Erin, you’re pretty no matter what you wear, and besides, if you want to borrow some clothes, just fucking ask.”

Erin blinks at her. “You’re just being nice so I stop complaining.”

“Is it working?”

“Yes,” she admits reluctantly, eyeing the cute top hanging on the wardrobe door. “Hand me the eyeshadow, Orla.”

Orla reaches for her Ma’s makeup bag she’d nicked earlier today. “Aren’t you supposed to put the eyeshadow _before_ the eyeliner?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I hadn’t realised we had a professional makeup artist among us?”

Orla shrugs. “Sir Reginald says he wouldn’t call himself a _professional_, but thanks you all the same.”

Erin ignores her. She’d tried to keep up with her cousin’s mad ghost stories, but Orla’s train of thought is just impossible to follow. She looks at herself in the mirror, genuinely happy with how her hasty makeup turned out and smiles. At least she’ll look cute.

She doesn’t even notice James leaning against the doorframe until Clare asks him to throw her another hairbrush.

He’s not wearing his jacket, Erin notices, and immediately wants to slap herself for it. Despite the blush that is creeping up her neck, she nods at him. She wants to tell him that he looks good, because he really does, but that would be weird, wouldn’t it? Friends don’t tell each other they look good, right? Or, like, handsome or –

“Did you dress up for that girl?” Michelle asks, smirking, and Erin turns away.

James scoffs. “You’re not going to give up, are you?”

“Of course not.” Michelle absentmindedly adjusts her curly hair. “Gotta know who’s stupid enough to date you.”

James shakes his head. “We’re not dating.”

Erin almost jumps at that. “You’re not?”

“No.”

“You didn’t say.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t ask.”

Clare nearly shrieks when she dares to look at the time. “I don’t want to be _that_ person, but if we want to get to Michelle’s party, we have to leave _now_!”

Orla’s the first one to shoot out of the bedroom, closely followed by Michelle and Clare. Erin waits for James to leave, but he’s waiting, his arms crossed on his chest, still leaning against the doorframe. She wishes she had something smart to say.

“Ready to party?” She asks, and regrets it almost instantly.

James chuckles. “Let’s go, the others are waiting.”

She doesn’t miss the way his eyes linger on her blushing neck.

* * *

**One hour and thirteen minutes earlier **

This party sucks.

“Isn’t that David Donnelly?” Clare wonders out loud, her lips lingering over her drink as though it were tea. Surprisingly, Erin barely reacts. It only occurs to her that Clare’s words were directed at her when she’s elbowed in the ribs.

Confusion’s quickly replaced by startling indifference. She shrugs as she takes him in. He looks exactly like he looked last year. Handsome, for sure, but Erin finds herself looking away, scanning the crowd for another pair of pretty eyes. Clare doesn’t seem to take the hint. “Uh, Erin?”

She hums. 

“Erin.”

Clare looks almost exasperated when Erin finally turns to her. “Yes?”

“Look over there.”

Erin follows her line of sight, which once again lands on David Donnelly. She looks back and forth between the two, completely oblivious to what Clare’s trying to get her to notice, until she gives up with a shrug.

“Are you blind?” Clare points at him. “Isn’t that the girl that was all over James a week ago?”

Erin’s head moves so fast it almost gives her whiplash.

She finally notices the girl David is talking to. She can only see her back, but now that she knows what she’s looking at, there’s no doubt about it. It’s _that_ girl. Clare doesn’t say anything as she witnesses Erin’s change in demeanour. They both gasp, however, when the girl throws herself in David Donnelly’s arms.

“Who _is_ that girl?” Erin asks, squinting her eyes at the scene.

Clare shakes her head, her expression mirroring Erin’s. “No idea.”

“Niamh Donnelly.”

Erin nearly drops the glass she’d even forgotten she was holding.

James smiles at her.

How he managed to materialize next to them without them noticing is beyond her.

It takes Clare a moment to get over the initial shock, but she quickly recovers. “_Donnelly_? As in, sister?”

Erin frowns. “No way, he doesn’t have a sister.” She turns to James. “_Right_?”

He shakes his head in agreement. “They’re cousins, actually.”

“Cousins,” she repeats, as though the word were foreign to her, “I didn’t even know he had cousins.”

James shrugs and raises his glass to his lips. Erin has to force herself to look away; because what weirdo watches their friends drinking. She’s not a weirdo. She’s perfectly normal, thank you very much. She decides to play it cool – because that’s what she is, _cool_ – and goes to have a sip of her own drink.

Only to realise it’s empty.

She doesn’t stop and waits for a drop of beer to touch her tongue to salvage what little is left of her dignity. How fucking embarrassing, she thinks, despite the fact that absolutely no one is looking at her. Not even James, thank god.

“Wait,” Clare says, scowling in confusion, “so you snogged David Donnelly’s cousin?”

James scratches the back of his head. “Well, uh, I’d say that _she_ snogged me.”

“Right,” Erin says, raising an eyebrow, “David Donnelly’s cousin just grabbed you-”

“– her name’s Niamh–”

“–and kissed you.”

James is having a hard time trying to keep a straight face at Erin’s astonished expression. “She asked me first, but yes, she’s the one that kissed me.”

Clare looks even more confused now. “She asked you? Out of the blue? Did you even know her before–”

She abruptly cuts herself off when she notices Michelle across the room, her tongue down some fella’s throat. She grimaces. “Oh no, is that the protestant?”

One look is enough for both Erin and James to nod. “Yeah.”

“I need another drink,” Clare says, reaching for Erin’s glass. “Can I get you guys anything?”

Erin nods, smiling, while James gestures towards his half-full cup. “I’m good, thanks.”

It takes about three seconds for Clare to disappear in the crowd of moving bodies. It suddenly occurs to her that there are more people here than last time. She worries about Clare’s return. She’d barely been able to see James last time, which had ended with her pressing her face into his back.

She blushes at the thought. He’s wearing the jacket again tonight. He’d grabbed it right before leaving the house.

“So?” She dares to ask, but keeps her eyes on David Donnelly’s cou– _Niamh Donnelly_.

James cocks his head to the side. “So… what?”

“So answer Clare’s question. She asked you out of the blue? Just like that?”

“Yeah.”

It doesn’t make sense to her. “Did you even _know_ her?”

“Nope. I didn’t know David Donnelly had a cousin, either.”

“And you’re not dating?”

James smiles behind his glass. “No, we’re not. To be honest, she took me by surprise, too. I was waiting in line to get our tickets when she just walked over to me and asked if she could kiss me. I didn’t even really have time to answer. She blabbered about some guy she wanted to forget – or was it to make him jealous, I don’t remember – so I kind of just, well, said yes and she kissed me.”

Erin blinks at him, taking in the information as though it were gibberish. “I- _what_?”

“Then she told me she owed me an explanation and bought me a ticket for _Twister_.”

Erin looks back at the girl, but realises that neither she nor David are still standing there. She looks around, but they’re nowhere to be found. She brings her attention back to James. “So what was the explanation?”

James raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know if I should tell.”

“You started it,” Erin says, looking into his eyes, “now you _better_ finish it.”

“Basically, this is what I’ve gathered between all the crying.” He pauses to make sure she’s paying attention. She is. “She’s staying with David’s family for a little while, she didn’t say why but I think she mentioned some sort of punishment.”

“So a bit like you, then.”

“I _chose_ to be here, remember?”

Erin walked right into that one. Her heart skips a beat as intrusive thoughts plague her line of thought. “Yes, yes, continue.”

“Right. So. She’d been dating Arawn O’Brian for a while.”

“You mean–”

He nods. “Yeah, we’re in his house right now.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah. So, apparently, he’s a real dick.”

Erin scoffs. “I’m not surprised.”

“Me neither, honestly. And Niamh seemed head over heels for him. She’s a really nice girl, and she keeps falling for the wrong guys.”

“But why is she here? This _is_ Arawn’s party.”

James shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe that’s why David’s here.”

“To keep an eye on her.”

“To keep an eye on _him_, I’d wager.” He takes another sip of his drink. “Arawn’s famous for his crazy parties.”

Erin cracks a smile. “I’ve never even met the fella.”

“Me neither.” He raises his now empty glass. “And here we are, drinking his booze.”

She laughs for the first time since they got here. It feels good. She looks up at James’ face, now that he’s looking at the crowd – probably searching for Clare – and she realises that she’d missed this. Missed talking and laughing and just – _looking_ – at him. The fluttering in her stomach is getting harder and harder to ignore.

But one question remains unanswered. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“You didn’t ask.”

Erin frowns. “Are you kidding me? Michelle’s been harassing you all week.”

“Yeah, _god_,” James says, rolling his eyes, “don’t remind me.”

“So why did you wait until now?” Erin purses her lips. “Don’t tell me you just wanted to make us suffer.”

She _knows_ she shouldn’t have used the word ‘suffer’, but there’s no going back now. The words are already out, so she better act like it’s nothing. Act cool. Yeah, cool. _She’s so cool_.

“Well, it’s none of her business, is it?”

“Then why tell us _now_?”

James cocks his head to the side. “You asked.”

“I- _James_. You’re not making any sense. It’s technically not my business either, you know.”

“I would have told you at the cinema, _had you asked_.”

She shakes her head. “You _left_ with David Donnelly’s cous– ugh, _Niamh_.”

“You _followed_.”

Erin can’t hide her blush anymore. She crosses her arms over chest and tries to look as nonchalant as she possibly could. He’s stating facts, she knows, but she isn’t ready for this much logic in one go. She blames it on the alcohol, and definitely not on the way his smile tends to distract her.

“I was just making sure she wasn’t like _Katya_.”

He hums. “You mean a perfectly normal girl who just so happened to be interested in me?”

“_Perfectly normal_?” Her eyebrows nearly fly off her face.

“Yeah, alright, no.” He puts his glass down on a nearby shelf, right next to a horrendous picture of a child that could only be a young Arawn, or one of his relatives. “But my point still stands.”

“No, it doesn’t. I wasn’t doing anything weird and plus, she didn’t even notice me.”

When he doesn’t answer, her eyes go wide. “She _didn’t_, did she?”

“She didn’t,” he admits, “but I’d hoped you’d come.”

Erin looks up in surprise. “_Hoped_?”

The words are out before she can stop them. She stares at his face, searching for clarification, but he’s already looking away. He can’t mean– Erin doesn’t know what this means. Wait_. Wait wait wait wait – _**wait**.

“Uh, I, well, not _hoped_, but, uh, I’d kinda figured you’d be curious enough to come and see?”

She doesn’t even register his words. Well, she does, but she chooses to ignore them. “_Really_?”

“Hey, don’t look at me like that. _You’re_ the one that sneaked in, not me.”

Erin squints her eyes at him. “To make sure you were alright.”

“Right.”

“Yes.”

“Of course.”

“No other reason. _None_.”

James chuckles, but he’s also blushing now. “I don’t believe you.”

“I- Why else would I have–”

“_You_ tell _me_.”

She scoffs. “I already told you and–”

“_Erin_.”

She stops. “_James_.”

“Why were you _really_ spying on me that day?”

She knows what he’s asking. She’s not stupid – of course she knows. The way his green eyes narrow in what looks like desperation has her heart beating louder than the music surrounding them. She swallows, willing her brain to come up with a proper answer, but she doesn’t – _she doesn’t know_. It can’t– she can’t possibly have feelings for– but she – everything is so–

She panics.

“I’m going to look for Clare.”

Erin doesn’t look back.

Not even when he calls out her name.

* * *

**One hour earlier **

When Michelle finally manages to get her hands on Orla and Clare, she’s already smiling like a shark.

“I found her, girls,” Michelle exclaims, raising her eyebrows repeatedly, downright ecstatic about the turn of events. 

Orla raises her hand for a high-five, which Michelle proudly accepts. “Great, Michelle! Who are you talking about?”

She doesn’t even find it in her to look exasperated. She just crosses her arms and tilts her head to the side. “The girl James fancies.”

Clare doesn’t try to hide her knowing smile. “You mean _Niamh Donnelly_?”

Michelle’s jaw drops. “_What_?! How do you know?!”

“James told Erin and I, like, ten minutes ago.” She suddenly looks at the two drinks in her hands. “Which reminds me that I have to find them, I still have Erin’s glass.”

Michelle stops her in her tracks. “What else did he say?”

“Not much, really, I went to get us some drinks. Also, by the way, Michelle, I don’t think it’s a good idea to keep riding that protestant, you know?”

“I was looking for information,” Michelle says, as though it were obvious.

“Down his throat?” Orla asks, genuinely interested in the efficiency of the technique.

Michelle sighs. “_Look_. I don’t know what James said, but I’m sure he’s lying to cover his ass, so I have a plan.”

“A plan,” Clare repeats, grimacing. “I don’t like where this is going, Michelle, why can’t we just accept that James–”

“Because he’s a prick who thought that he could keep vital information from me, his devoted cousin, and now I’m forced to get the information elsewhere.”

Clare frowns. “Elsewhere? But–“

“We have to find the Donnelly girl.”

Clare clearly doesn’t approve, and Orla doesn’t look interested in the conversation at all. When neither have the reaction Michelle is waiting for, she turns away from them – cursing under her breath – and immediately sets out to find her only real friend. Erin Quinn.

“No.”

Michelle only has to say _Niamh Donnelly_ for Erin to stop her. Michelle tries to explain the situation to her, but Erin’s having none of it. She looks tense – worried, even. Michelle tries to get some sort of explanation out of her, but Erin just answers with hums and shakes of her head. It takes a total of two and a half minutes for Michelle to lose her mind. “What’s wrong with all of you tonight?!”

“I’m just not in the mood, Michelle.”

She frowns. “_Not in the mood_? We’re at a party, for feck’s sake. Just grab a drink and snog a guy, you’ll feel better in no time.”

As she says that, Michelle grabs the guy on her right by the shoulder, forcing him to turn around and face Erin, who barely has the time to open her mouth that Michelle’s already talking. “Right, fella, she needs a good ride, have fun!”

The guy raises an eyebrow. “You like to ride?”

Michelle is already too far away to hear Erin’s colourful insults.

* * *

**Fifty minutes earlier**

Orla has no idea what’s going on.

Clare watches Michelle walk away from Erin, a satisfied smirk twisting her lips, and she just knows Michelle’s going to get them _all_ in trouble. She turns to Orla, grimacing. “Right. I’m going to go save Erin, she looks like she’s about to faint.”

Orla nods. “Alright, and what should I do?”

“You should probably get to Niamh Donnelly before Michelle does. _Protect her_.”

Orla doesn’t even have the time to ask what she looks like that Clare is out of her sight. She turns to look around, hoping to find Sir Reginald somewhere, but he _had_ mentioned that parties weren’t his thing. Something about the wrong vibe. She’d nodded knowingly.

“On me own, then.”

She starts to make her way through the crowd, staring at every girl she comes across, but after a couple minutes, it does occur to her that it’s useless. She has no idea what Niamh looks like. Everyone had seen James snog the girl, but she’d been deep in conversation with Sir Reginald, so she’d missed the whole thing.

“What _now_?” She wonders, squinting her eyes at the sea of people in the living room.

That’s when she notices a guy with a red hoodie and dark hair.

“_That_ now,” she says, smiling triumphantly.

David Donnelly.

He’s dancing with a gal when she reaches him. His look of surprise soon turns to confusion as he realizes that he doesn’t know her. When she doesn’t say anything for a while, he frowns. “Can I help you?”

Orla nods eagerly. “I’m looking for your cousin.”

“Niamh?” He says, his scowl deepening, “why are you looking for her?”

“To protect her.”

His expression changes again. Confused to worried. He walks closer to her, his face serious. “Protect her? From _what_?”

Orla thinks about what Clare had told her, but she’s genuinely just as confused as he is. “I’m not sure. I was told to find her and protect her.”

“Who told you that?” David asks, looking around.

“Clare.”

He purses his lips. “Clare?”

“Clare. Small. Blonde?”

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“No, I’d have heard it,” Orla says, nodding in agreement. “So, what does your cousin look like?”

David blinks at her. “You don’t know what she looks like?”

“Why do you think I’m asking you?” Orla points a thumb at herself. “I’m a crackin’ tracker but I can’t track someone I’ve never smelled.”

“Smell– _what_?”

Orla smiles. “I was raised by wolves, I was.”

David’s eyes are as wide as saucers. “Right.”

“I can still hear them sometimes.”

He slowly turns away from her, confused beyond belief, and grabs the first arm he can reach. He turns a guy around – tall, bulky and certainly not sober – and asks him if he’s seen a relatively tall girl with long brown hair and blue eyes.

“So that’s what she looks like,” Orla whispers, immediately looking around them, hoping the girl would suddenly pop out of nowhere, like a rabbit out of a magic hat. That would be _so_ cool.

The guy shakes his head. “Nah, mate, sorry.”

David groans, but thanks the fella, nonetheless. He questions random people as he goes, and all the answers are the same. Niamh Donnelly is nowhere to be found. Well, until Orla decides to conduct her own interrogations. She grabs the first arm she sees and is almost surprised to see Jenny Joyce on the other end of it. _Almost_.

“Jenny, have you seen Niamh Donnelly?” She asks.

“Who?”

Orla hums. “Relatively tall. Brown hair. Blue eyes.”

“I have no idea who that is, _Orla_, but if you can’t find her _here_…” The look of disgust that follows is probably supposed to convey something, but the meaning of Jenny’s insistent glare is lost on her.

Until it hits. “_Right_! She’s on the toilet!”

“No, you daft idiot,” Jenny says, looking around. “She’s probably shagging some fella upstairs like a slag.”

That’s when David Donnelly appears behind Orla’s shoulder. “_What did you just say_?”

“I didn’t mean it in a–”

But David’s already gone. Orla nods at Jenny – who’s on the verge of tears because _oh my god David Donnelly hates me now_ – and runs after him up the stairs. He opens door after door, but except a very annoyed cat, they don’t find anything. “Fuck.”

“Maybe she really _is_ on the toilet,” Orla says, and David sighs. 

“Who knows?”

Orla shrugs. “Not me.”

He notices a key hanging on the wall and after a minute of silent inner debate, he uses it to close all the doors, one after the other. Orla watches him, a bit confused. “Who are you locking in?”

“No one. I’m locking people _out_.” He shrugs. “Just in case Niamh comes back with that prick.”

“What prick?”

David sighs. “Arawn O’Brian. You know him?”

“Never met.”

“You _do_ know you’re in his house, right?”

Orla looks around, nodding. “Nice house.”

She’s about to ask him something when he suddenly runs down the stairs. It wouldn’t be this difficult to keep up with him if there were less people here. She walks right on some girl’s foot when David stops in front a blonde fella. “Have you seen my cousin, mate?”

“I don’t even know _who_ your cousin _is_, Dave.” 

“You sure? Niamh Donnelly?”

The guy perks up. “Oh, Arawn’s girl.”

“_Not his girl_,” David says, his voice a whole octave lower than before.

The guy raises his hands in surrender. “Hey, mate, I don’t know where she is. Arawn left, like, fifteen minutes ago to get some more beer, maybe she’s with them?”

“_Them_?”

The guy nods. “Yeah, they were, like, three or –”

David doesn’t wait for the bloke to finish – he makes a beeline towards the front door. He doesn’t notice Orla right away, too busy pushing people out of his way to reach the exit. When he does, however, he stops dead in his tracks and she walks right into him.

“What are you doing?”

Orla frowns at him. “Looking for your cousin.”

“It’s fine. I’m handling it.”

She shrugs her shoulders. “Maybe. Or maybe not.”

“Do _you_ know where they went?”

“Do _you_ know where they went?”

They stare at each other for a second, until David eventually scoffs. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“I have my orders, David Donnelly.”

He shakes his head in disbelief. “David’s fine.”

“It _is_ a fine name, David Donnelly, but I don’t see how it’s relevant to the hunt.”

His eyebrows nearly shoot up to his hairline. “The _what_, now?”

“The hunt. Of your cousin? Are you really _that_ lost?”

For a few seconds, David can’t do anything but stare at the curly-haired girl in front of him. She looks just as exasperated with him as he is with her. He takes a deep, deep breath.

“Alright then, let’s go. I have my idea where they could have gone.”

Orla pumps her fist in the air. “Let the hunt begin!”

“Please don’t call it that,” David says, despite the hint of a smile forming on his lips.

“Quest?”

He thinks about it for a second. “Yeah, sure. Quest works fine.”

“Let the quest begin!”

Let it begin.

* * *

**Fourty minutes earlier**

Michelle’s standing on Arawn O’Brian’s front porch, desperate to find that Donnelly girl.

She’d searched everywhere for her. The living room. The kitchen. The garage. Everywhere. The girl had disappeared right under her nose. She shouldn’t be this difficult to find. She’s taller than most girls at the party, and has really long brown hair – it shouldn’t be this _fucking_ hard, damnit.

“_Fuck_,” she sighs, stomping her foot on the ground.

She’s about to turn back when she notices a car drive by the house. The fact that someone is driving at this hour of night isn’t the most surprising thing – even if it somewhat is – but then she recognises the person _driving_ the car. And suddenly, she is seconds away from crying.

Her Ma.

Diedre Mallon’s on her way home.

“Oh god, oh fuck, oh fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” Michelle whispers as the implications truly hit her.

She’s going to die.

She can already imagine her Ma’s angry glare, the way her eyebrows would scrunch together, how her fists would shake as she’d ground her daughter until next century. She’d never see the light of day again and–

Oh god, she realises, _James_. 

James is here. She’ll send him back to Aunt Cathy and – _fuck_. What kind of _rotten_ luck is this? She just wanted to have nice night out with her friends and now _this_? Her mother’s car suddenly turns left – not right, their house is on the right though why is she – oh. Oh. She’s probably driving to a patient’s house first. She does that sometimes, Michelle’s sure, even in the middle of the night.

She still has a chance.

She looks around, looking at people’s wrists, hoping one of them has a watch. When she sees one, she immediately goes to grab the bloke’s arm, raising it so she can prepare a plan. When she drops his hand, she’s surprised to hear him chuckle. “You could have just asked, you know?”

Michelle looks at his face for the first time. He’s _all_ angles – with a sharp jaw line and high cheekbones – and for a second, she barely remembers her name. He’s definitely hot. Scorching hot. Fucking lava. She’d feel embarrassed for staring, but she really doesn’t have the time for that. She has to get home before her Ma does. “Yeah, sorry, gotta go.”

“This is the second time you grab my arm tonight and you don’t even say hello? You’re not the girl I used to know, Mallon.”

Second time? Oh. He’s the fella from earlier, with Erin, isn’t he? That doesn’t explain how he knows her name, though. “Do we know each other or are you just a creepy stalker?”

He genuinely looks surprised. “You really don’t remember me?”

“Listen, mate, I don’t have time for this.”

“I’ll give you a hint before you go.” He points towards the house behind her. “That’s my parents’ house.”

Michelle scoffs, rolling her eyes. “_Right_, of course. That’s Arawn O’Brian’s house, you dumb–”

Oh my god_. Oh. My. God. _The eyes. The smile. The angles.

“Rory O’Brian.”

Arawn’s older brother.

* * *

**Thirty-five minutes earlier **

This party sucks.

Erin brings her knees closer to her body.

When Michelle had left her with that random bloke, Erin had immediately made up an excuse to get the hell out of there. He hadn’t followed her, _thank god_, and she’d run up the stairs to hide somewhere less crowded. She’d opted for the room furthest away from the staircase in case some lovey-dovey couple decided to find a private room.

She’d even gone one step further.

She’d hidden in a wardrobe.

If only she’d known.

_If only. _

Because now she’s stuck.

And she really doesn’t know what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You read everything, huh? Thank you so much for still reading my fic, even after all this time. 
> 
> Thank. You.


	6. Part Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooooo, it took me while, huh? So sorry about that. I had to re-write this a couple thousand times to finally be happy with it. I ended up deciding to add one or two chapters, so at least there's that. 
> 
> This is only part 2 of part 5, but I decided to just call it Part Six to avoid confusion. 
> 
> Thank you very much if you're still reading this, despite me taking ages to write. 
> 
> Without further ado, have fun reading!

**Thirty minutes earlier**

Orla is having the time of her life.

David Donnelly definitely isn’t.

With every puddle of vomit they encounter, he dies a little inside.

Orla likes to stop to inspect the colour.

He’s on the verge of a mental breakdown.

She’s sure Arawn ate peas earlier today.

He’s sure he’ll never eat peas ever again.

“The fella boked all over Derry, didn’t he?” Orla says, her eyes wide with amazement.

David nods absentmindedly, grimacing as the foul smell hits his nostrils. He nearly walks right into a letterbox in an effort to avoid upsetting his own stomach. Orla, as it turns out, isn’t as easily bothered. She doesn’t mind crouching to take a better look, or even using an empty beer can to play with the peas.

He isn’t sure if he should be disgusted or impressed.

“O’Brian went that way,” she mumbles, nudging her head to the left.

As odd as it sounds, it’s definitely the latter.

He dutifully holds his breath as he jumps over the boke, ignoring Orla’s amused look, and jogs to catch up to her. He only allows himself to breathe once they’re a good ten metres away from the crime scene. He expects her to say something snarky – he knows _he_ would, had the roles been reversed – but she just smiles at him, shrugging. She picks up the pace, her hair bouncing over her shoulders, and he finds himself struggling to keep up with her.

He tries to calm his mind, images of punching Arawn’s ugly nose clouding his good judgement. Care for Niamh first, destroy Arawn later. He tries not to think about the trouble she might have got herself into, but Niamh was sent to his family for a reason. She’s like a trouble _magnet_.

But she’ll be fine. She will. He just needs to find her, right?

“Right.”

“Right?” Orla turns her head to the right, frowning. “Why do you want to go right?”

He stops in his tracks. “What?”

“I don’t think they went that way,” Orla insists, squinting her eyes at the dimly lit alley, scanning the ground for Arawn’s DNA. “What did you see?”

David blinks at her. He hadn’t realized he’d said that out loud. “No, I- shit. I meant, _er_, well nothing. Forget it.”

“_Right_.”

She’s laughing.

He’s losing his mind.

* * *

**Meanwhile **

Michelle can’t fucking believe it.

“Didn’t you, like, move to New York or something?”

Rory O’Brian snorts, scowling in confusion. “Is that what my Ma told everyone? Can’t really say I’m that surprised.”

She shrugs, still a bit shocked at how much he’d changed in a little over a year. “That’s what _my_ Ma told me, anyway. So? Where did you fuck off to, then, if not California?”

“New York is not in California.”

She doesn’t let the embarrassment show. “Whatever.”

“Right.” He takes a sip of his drink. “York.”

Michelle eyes the contents of his cup, the liquid disturbingly transparent. _Is that vodka?_ “York?”

“Yeah, York.”

She’s fairly certain her brain is registering the information wrong. “You’re shitting me.”

“I shit you not,” Rory says, trying to hide his faint smile behind his drink.

“You live in York,” she repeats, as though saying the words out loud would make more sense. They don’t. “You live in _York._”

His smile turns into a soft chuckle. ‘I mean, I could say that I live in North Yorkshire, but it’s pretty much the same, isn’t it, aye?’

“You moved to _fucking_ _England_?” Michelle shrieks.

“Be careful there, French Fry, you’re starting to sound a lot like your mother.”

Michelle’s face turns bright pink. She can feel heat travel from the tip of her ears to the sides of her neck. She’d somehow forgotten that stupid nickname over the years.

It was _fucking_ ridiculous.

She gapes at him, her slightly alcoholised mind unable to come up with a witty retort. Thankfully, Rory doesn’t wait for her to speak, although the amused glint in his eyes tells her everything she needs to know.

He points to his wrist-watch. “So what were you doing, grabbing some stranger’s arm like that?”

The reality of the situation hits her square in the face. “Oh fuck, I’m going to be late! Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh-”

“Mmh, I somehow knew Diedre wouldn’t just give you permission to go to a party like this.”

“Oh fuck off, O’Brian, I’m not seven anymore. I can go wherever the fuck I want, now. I’m practically an adult.”

He nods, arching an eyebrow. “Right. I wonder what your Ma has to say about that.”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Because she’s not going to find out I ever left because I’m going to be home on time and everything’s going to be fine. _Yeah_. Everything’s going to be fine,” Michelle mumbles, trying to calm herself down.

Rory sighs, leaving his cup on a nearby table. “Do you need a ride?”

“No, you’re _drunk_,” she instantly says, looking around the front lawn for her friends. “I’m not fucking stupid.”

“Drunk on water, aye?”

She blinks at him. “Huh?”

“I have to drive home,” Rory explains, shrugging.

“You _live_ here, fucko,” Michelle says, eyeing him suspiciously.

Something flashes in his eyes. They drop to his shoes for a moment, just long enough for her to remember _why_ he’d left Derry in the first place. She takes a step forward, but he’s already waving her off. “I’m staying at a friend’s place, actually.”

Despite the lingering awkwardness of the situation, she scoffs. “Finnigan’s?”

“Yeah,” Rory says, smiling sheepishly, “he’s not there anyway, so his parents agreed to let me stay in his room for a couple days.”

“Oh, _right_. Derry wasn’t good enough for him, eh? Wales, right?”

He shrugs. “Scotland, actually. Some boarding school in Scotland.”

“Huh. How is Seamus, anyway? Haven’t seen him since last year. He’s never fucking there.”

Rory takes a glance at his watch. “Michelle, you’re still late, are you sure you don’t want me to-”

“Yes, _yes_, drive me. Let’s go. Come on. Let’s fucking _go_.”

He scoffs. “Polite as ever.”

“Let’s fucking go, _please_,” Michelle says, smiling as he rolls his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief.

He grabs the keys of his motorcycle, dangling them in front of her. “Move it then, French Fry.”

“Oh fuck off.”

* * *

**Also meanwhile**

Clare can’t find _anyone_.

She also really has to pee.

Being tiny has its advantages. Clare likes being tiny. She never has to worry about the lack of leg space in cars – or planes, but she wouldn’t know, she’s never actually been in one. She also never has to duck to avoid slamming her head into a low doorframe, like Orla or James. She also doesn’t have to–

Another elbow hits her square in the face.

She also _hates_ being small.

Clare forces her way through the crowd, her arms raised at nose-level to try and protect herself from drunk people’s questionable dance moves. The air is thick with sweat, smoke and the unavoidable smell of alcohol. When she finally reaches the downstairs bathroom, she’s only half-surprised it’s already occupied.

“Oh, sweet Jesus, _no_,” she whines, her bladder about to explode. “Please, hurry up!”

A girl to her left taps her on the shoulder. “You gotta boke?”

Clare makes a disgusted face. “No, I just have to, er, _you know_.”

“Well,” the girl slurs, her eyes glazed over, “me friend’s fucking some fella in here so-”

“Oh _God_.”

Clare sprints up the stairs, mumbling profanities the whole way up. She tries to open the first door she sees, praying that she’d magically find herself in a bathroom, but it’s locked – and so is the room next to it. “Oh please, oh God. This can’t be happening.”

She turns around the corner and–

“Clare?”

She’s so happy to see a bathroom that she doesn’t notice James sitting against the wall. 

She slams the door behind her and thanks the Lord for this life-saving miracle.

It’s only when she’s finished washing her hands that she hears a strange noise coming from the bathtub. She forces herself to turn around, bracing for the worst. A serial-killer. A terrorist. Sister Michael. God.

The curtain moves and Clare has to fight the urge to close her eyes.

“H-hello?”

A girl. It’s just a girl. A _crying_ girl.

“Are you okay?” Clare asks, her tone apprehensive.

The girl nods shakily, but her tear-stained cheeks tell another story. She makes a move to get out of the tub, but somehow manages to hit her head against the wall and ends up falling back inside. Clare just stands there, too slow to be of any help. “Are you _okay_?”

“I’m pathetic,” the girl says.

Clare winces, unsure of how to deal with this. She doesn’t seem particularly drunk – or stoned – and Clare doesn’t see any blood either. A fairly good start. The girl looks pained, though. Perhaps because of the lump that’s probably already forming on her forehead, or perhaps because of something less tangible.

Heartbreak immediately comes to mind.

Clare’s felt that before. She knows it sucks. But she’d had friends to get through it. It hadn’t stopped the ache, but it had made her feel better, anyway.

What the girl needs is a friend.

“Hi, pathetic. I’m Clare.”

* * *

**A couple seconds later**

“Are you sure that was Clare?”

James isn’t feeling well.

The music downstairs is giving him a headache, the drinks he’s had earlier are starting to make him a tad nauseous and the thought of getting sent back to England makes him want to hide in a hole and never come out.

“Don’t worry, Erin. We’ll get you out of there soon, I promise.”

He’s not about to give up on her, though.

He hears her move on the other side of the door. He’s tempted to ask her to stay next it, as though walking through the room would suddenly make her disappear, but he keeps his mouth shut. She’s probably more freaked out that she lets on, and he knows that Erin likes to walk things out.

“What do you think the others are doing?” She asks.

Good question.

“Well, if that _was_ Clare,” he starts, “she’s probably in the bathroom right now. Only God knows how long she’ll be in there.”

He hears a chuckle. _Good_.

“Did we ever tell you about the day we thought Clare had been kidnapped?”

James shouldn’t feel this surprised. “No?”

“It happened, like, four years ago. She’d told us not to wait for her to go to class and then never showed up. Turns out she’d peed herself and was too embarrassed to ask for help.”

“No wonder she never told me about this,” James says, grimacing, “that must have been a mortifying experience.”

“You have no idea. It took us three hours to find her.” Erin starts laughing. “Michelle ended up sacrificing her favourite jacket for her.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yeah. She used it to hide Clare’s wet skirt.”

James nods in amazement. His headache is getting a bit worse, and it doesn’t occur to him that she can’t see him. His hand goes through his hair, hoping that the half-hearted massage would perhaps soothe the pain, but it does little more than mess up his look. Not that it actually matters.

“She cares a lot about you, too, you know?”

He can’t help but scoff.

“She really _does_. She just has a shitty way of showing it, is all.”

“You don’t say,” James says, rolling his eyes.

Erin stays silent for a couple seconds, and James is certain that he’s killed the conversation without meaning to. “What about-”

“I told her I hated her.”

The words die in his throat. He tries to think of something to say to that, but nothing comes to mind.

“About a month before you arrived, actually. I don’t even remember what the whole thing was about, but I remember the anger. She’d done or said something mean and I just- I told her that I hated her.”

James patiently waits for her to continue.

“I didn’t even mean it. I’d just wanted to hurt her like she had hurt me. I didn’t _care_ anymore.”

“You were upset,” he says, entirely too familiar with the feeling – especially when it comes to his cousin.

She sighs. “Yeah, I was. That doesn’t mean that it was okay to make her cry. She’d tried to apologize, but I’d just wanted her to hurt. What does that say about me, huh?”

“You’re not a bad person, Erin.” James wishes she could see him right now. “You’ve forgiven her, haven’t you?”

“Of course, but… it still happened.”

“And it might happen again. You’re _human_, Erin.”

He can almost _hear_ her smile. “That’s exactly my point, you know?”

“What? That you’re human?”

“That _we’re_ human. Michelle included.”

James knows that. He also knows that Michelle hadn’t always been so… careless with other people’s feelings. Something had happened to her, but he’s never had the courage to ask her about it. He _knows_ that she doesn’t particularly mean to hurt others, but that doesn’t make it okay either. “Yeah.”

“I haven’t always been very nice to you either.”

He wishes he could disagree. “That’s different.”

“Is it, though?”

He lets his head fall back against the door. “I’m _English_.”

Her laugh makes him forget the headache for a few blissful seconds. He barely has the time to wonder about the meaning of it all that she decides to shatter his thought process. “Did I ever tell you how happy I am to have met you?”

He has to remind himself to breathe. “We’re not going to _die_ here, Erin, you don’t need to-”

“Way to be dramatic, James. I’m trying to be nice here.”

They both laugh.

So much, in fact, that neither of them realizes that the music has stopped.

* * *

**Ten minutes later **

“Is that my song?”

Humming is one of Orla’s favourite pastimes.

She’s never really aware that she’s doing it – at least not until someone tells her to shut up. Erin calls it an _annoying habit_, but Orla likes to think that it’s her body’s natural response to boredom. She can never feel bored, because there will always be a new song to sing.

“Is it?” She asks, genuinely curious, “Erin listens to it all the time.”

This is the first time she’s seen David Donnelly smile tonight. “I didn’t know she bought my CD.”

Orla shrugs, his smile contagious. “She didn’t. I bought it for her as a birthday gift last year.”

“And she liked it?”

“Aye, she did. Hasn’t stopped listening to it. It’s driving Aunt Mary insane, it is.”

She jumps over a bunch of empty beer cans, only a tad disappointed when David only bypasses them.

“Did _you_ like it?”

Orla has to think about it for a second. Feelings are easy to express, but the right words are often hard to find. “It feels like… a rainbow.”

“I- _Okay_,” he says, struggling to understand what the hell she means by that. He waits for an explanation, but Orla seems to have already moved on. He tries to do the same – he really does, he’s pretty convinced that he’ll never understand this girl – but he needs to know. He _needs_ to know. “Why a rainbow?”

She looks at him like he’s stupid. “Because sun and rain make rainbows, David Donnelly.”

“I guess so, _yeah_, but what does it have to do with my song?”

She frowns. “Everything.”

“Everything,” he repeats, looking at her expectantly. “I’m not following, Orla.”

“The melody… It’s like the _sun_. It’s warm and feels nice and it makes you want to dance. But the words you sing are sad. They’re heavy and they cling to you. They’re like _rain_. You wish you could have an umbrella to protect yourself from them, but some of them make it through anyway.”

His heart skips a beat. “And together… they feel like a rainbow.”

“_Exactly_,” Orla says, nodding enthusiastically.

He doesn’t even notice that their pace has slowed to a stop. He’s at a loss for words. That is, without the shadow of a doubt, the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about his music. He’s always wanted people to _feel_ things while listening to his tracks, but he’d never imagined this. A rainbow.

“Thank you, Orla McCool.”

“You’re welcome, David Donnelly.” She points her finger towards something behind him. “Isn’t that the O’Brian fella?”

Orla feels like everything happens in slow motion.

David Donnelly’s face scrunches up, his smile long gone, as he turns to face the source of all of his problems. Well, not all of his problems, but some of them for sure. Arawn looks beyond pissed drunk, but that doesn’t stop David from grabbing him by the collar. “Where the _fuck_ is Niamh?”

“Who?”

David grits his teeth. “_Talk_, O’Brian.”

“I don’t fucking know where your _slag_ of a cousin is, mate, but I bet she’s somewhere getting-”

Orla watches the scene unfold, her heart beating faster. She doesn’t wince when David’s fist connects with Arawn’s jaw, but she does gasp when Arawn’s two mates slam David into the nearest wall. Without thinking, she leaps towards the closest bloke, using the momentum to headbutt him square in the face, forcing him to take a couple steps back.

“Fucking hell, get her-”

David punches him in the gut, effectively shutting him up. “Did you just _break his nose_?”

Orla blinks at him. “Aye, maybe.”

“Alright let’s go!” David says, the adrenaline making him laugh. “Let’s get outta here.”

The three guys are too drunk to match their speed. Still, David doesn’t stop running until he’s sure they can’t catch up to them anymore. He’s not even surprised to see that Orla’s barely out of breath, while he’s on the verge of throwing up.

“Remind me never to get on your bad side, McCool,” he says, taking deep breaths.

Orla laughs at that, flexing her muscles. “I once opened a coconut with my head.”

“I honestly don’t doubt that.”

She smiles even harder.

David looks around, making sure that they hadn’t been followed, and his smile gradually drops.

“Are they here?” Orla asks, struggling to see anything.

He shakes his head. “No. But Niamh wasn’t with them.”

“We probably missed her at the party.”

“Yeah. I really hope we did.”

She starts walking, urging him to follow her. “Come on then, David Donnelly. Our quest isn’t over.”

He shakes his head in amused disbelief.

This will definitely be a night to remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ehehehehehehehehe
> 
> Part Seven will be the end of the party, I promise. 
> 
> I hope. Lmao.

**Author's Note:**

> So, what'd you think? I'd honestly love to know. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading.


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